


gifts

by Keturagh



Series: False Fruit [21]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dom!Solas geeks out about hemp rope, F/M, Gen, Hanging Out, References to Kink, bros hanging out in the woods being friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22046002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh
Summary: Bull clapped him on the shoulder, grinning and, in truth, almost sending him under the water. “Your eyes go all soft when you talk about her, mage.”
Relationships: Blackwall & Solas, Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel/Inquisitor, Iron Bull & Solas
Series: False Fruit [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579504
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	gifts

“So it weren’t some elf ceremony, her growing all that elfroot?” Blackwall knocked the spoon against the pot, the dull thock of wood hitting iron almost drowned by the sound of the river.

The weight at the end of the rod was heavy under Solas’ grip. Water sloshed up his knees, his efforts to fight the river’s course drenching him in sweat under the hot sun. His back was turned to the Warden and the Iron Bull.

He smiled and shifted the rod. The canvas bag attached to the other end dipped back into the strong mid-river current. The river spread just beyond the fall of the rod, joining a modest mountain lake where they had set their camp. A flock of large fowl, some manner of mostly-black goose, he ventured to guess, bobbed and flipped their feathers and shat along the shore, uncaring of the men who camped nearby.

“Not at all,” the Bull answered, “doesn’t seem so anyway. Real talent. Shame she can’t put it to good use.”

“Refrain, please, from any suggestion that she would thrive under the Qun,” Solas interjected, speaking loudly enough over his shoulder to be heard above the river. The Bull laughed and gave him a liar’s apology.

“Don’t have much of a leg to stand on where that’s concerned now, I suppose,” he chuckled.

Solas felt the water tugging at the canvas sack and the bundles soaking within. Nothing could truly spoil the good humor of this day. His light mood had seemed to infect the other men on the road. That morning they had found the wolf pack, rabid as reported, and put them out of their misery, then it had been an easy enough climb to this spot. They’d bantered, easy and even raucous, the whole way, stopping only to piss and once to track a path Blackwall swore was a moose trail but which disappeared, traceless, beyond the line of trees.

“I’d figured,” Blackwall slurped a taste of the broth and potato chunks, “needs more rosemary, Bull, you got any? Aye, thanks — I’d figured all her quiet nights in the garden were part of some moony thing. Kind of worship for her,” Solas looked back to watch Blackwall gesture to his face, fingers swirling in the air over his eye.

He turned back to the river. “No. It was not a Dalish ceremony.” He pulled the rod up again and judged that the soaking was complete enough. Hand-over-hand, he drew the rod back towards the shallow bank; it was unwieldy, and the sack on the end swung, sending a splash of river over his bare chest and rolled-up breeches. He grunted, shook the water out of his eyes, and struggled a little with the weight.

“Gotcha, beanpole.” Solas heard the heavy splashes of the Bull coming up behind him, then large arms reached around to help him rein in the gunny sack. “I’m interested to see if your kind grind the fur the same way. You gonna use fire, too?”

“It is not uncommon to leave the fibers for rougher work, but I prefer the idea of… a gentler touch, for this purpose.”

Bull clapped him on the shoulder, grinning and, in truth, almost sending him under the water. “Your eyes go all soft when you talk about her, mage.”

“And I appreciate your discretion, Iron Bull,” Solas said pointedly, and the Bull laughed. Blackwall kept his attention on their meal. Solas and the Bull shared a glance; both men knew that Blackwall must have a passing inkling of what they referred to, but it seemed he didn’t much care to discover the details.

The gift had been impossible to hide from the Bull. 

Pangara had delivered it Solas in the middle of the tavern at Skyhold, of all places. Solas had just stopped by to return one of Dorian’s books, and had been drawn (foolishly, he must stop indulging these lapses of judgement) into a game of Diamondback.

He remembered her, the way she had come downstairs to their table, proud and laughing, Sera making filthy noises from the second floor. She told him later that she’d often sat in Sera’s windows with her dowel and cords, twisting and cabling, getting in fights with the child. She inevitably regretted her words when the day was done.

She’d heard him downstairs: his cool reveal of the winning hand, the hooting of Blackwall collecting on bets, and the mixed, losing groans of Donal Sutherland’s crew.

When he’d looked up and seen her on the landing, her grin had tilted, wicked.

“A gift,” she’d descended the steps, announcing loud enough to catch the attention of the whole tavern, “to entice you to leave these good adventurers their fortunes.”

She’d dropped the cloth sack on the middle of the table. All eyes watched him curiously. He’d lifted out what was inside. He’d expected something exotic bought in Val Royeaux, or perhaps some enchanted artifact smuggled from Tevinter.

What she had made for him: four lengths twice-length his armspan, two lengths thrice-length his armspan, and one length one-length his armspan, all with a bit of extra length to lose in the conditioning.

Seven lengths in all, hand-spun. Unmistakably lightweight, he recognized the pale sheen of young Royal elfroot bast fiber. He’d lifted the bundles from the rough sack, touched the fuzzy cords, and tried to say anything past the thickness in his throat.

“How…?” he’d choked, and she’d pointed smugly at her vallaslin.

“Ropes and weaving.”

And of course, the Bull had recognized at once that this was no mere traveler’s ropekit. He’d given Solas a knowing, sideways grin, and said to Pangara, “That’s beautiful work, boss. You got the touch.”

She’d laughed, bought them all another beer, and then they’d shared one last night together before parting ways for three agonizing weeks. It was longer than he’d been apart from her since… not only since that night in the Exalted Plains, but, well, really, since he had sat beside her bed in Haven. He’d been alone and afraid and confused, holding the Anchor while she slept and murmured about things she should not know. She had healed the sky and he’d remembered looking up at the great rip between realms, knowing the moment it all changed, ‘what have I done?’ He’d been worried to be apart from her when she awoke. Letting her drift too far from his influence would put him in danger, so he’d kept himself close, if aloof.

Perhaps not aloof enough. Now he yearned to touch her. He longed to speak with her every night and let her hold him. He ached for the kind of release she could allow him: the strength, the control, the power to do right, to do well. To hold her and take care of her.

The Bull teased him again for the way he was smiling, but he paid him no mind. So his heart was light and his head filled with beating wings and fast currents. She had labored over these gifts for him, for what they had together; everything she could have given him, and she knew just what he needed. _I love her,_ the words were a low, giddy constant in his soul, _how I love her, love her, love._

He’d boiled the ropes for just a short time in the soup pot before Blackwall had added the stock and vegetables, and he’d only wanted to rinse the lengths in the river. The large fowl in the lake squawked and splashed and seemed not to fear Blackwall, who left the broth boiling down and went off to make one of them their dinner. Solas carried the sack over to the line of trees and untied it from the rod. As he worked, he thought idly of how much he missed her. He imagined how she must have toiled over this rope as he tied one end to a branch and unrolled it across to another. The Bull helped him, reaching higher branches.

Between the two of them, it was short work hanging the ropes up to dry in the sun.

The Bull traded Seheron’s versions of old Tevinter riddles with Solas’ memories of the original Elvhen versions. So much had been altered by time and translation, yet even still, so much endured.

“Is it, a lake?” Bull guessed.

“Most of the ones that reference mirrors are, yes,” Solas chuckled easily. “Not terribly original.”

He was calm, gazing up at the taut ropes dripping river water into the leaves of the goldenrain trees. The ropes were like strange plumage decorating the branches, almost festive. He felt like his heart was in a constant celebration. His mind buzzed with persistent bliss. This feeling had lingered longer than the tingling of her goodbye kiss, longer than his memories of her warm arms clinging around his back. The ropes swayed in the breeze. Her fingers had nimbly twisted them. He had been troubled often lately with the consideration of what he could give her in return, what he could give her as a token of his esteem.

The Bull, of course, knew where his thoughts must lie. “So what are you gonna give her?” he asked, going back to the fire and sitting heavily, easing his bad leg up onto the stack of logs they’d chopped for firewood.

“I admit I’m at something of a loss,” he said.

Should he be careful with Bull, or make a show of good feeling? He did not know how much was false face and how much true in his dealings with the Bull these days. He found he wanted to appeal to the man’s newfound freedom, yet he knew such ease was dangerous. A company of fellow soldiers in a forward camp: it would be easy to slip, to reveal more than he meant.

Blackwall ladled their portions into bowls and passed them their meals. “Y’ask me,” he said, pointing with his spoon, “a gift must be hand-wrought in return for like.”

“So,” the Bull agreed, “what can you make, mage? You into, what, ice sculpture? Garden of fire flowers?” He drank his soup from the bowl, the spoon of too modest a size for his large grip.

Solas kept his bowl in his lap, leaning back against a log. “I’d no idea you’d encourage the working of magic for courting, Bull.”

The Bull snorted. “I don’t. Just want to make sure I’m far away when you mages start to use demons to say ‘come warm my bed.’”

“Is that something the Qun has taught you mages practice when taking lovers?”

“Look, all I’m saying is, you mess with magic, you treat it casual? Next thing you know, a Desire demon is taking your place in the sack.”

Solas tilted his head and considered, “With the way things are now, that fear is… not altogether unwarranted, although far too simplistic, and indicative of the -”

“Alright,” Blackwall cut in, bringing them back from the edge of the argument. “Anyway, he’s not going to use magic. She’s a mage too, and he’s got to give her something she can’t get for herself. Not easy,” he blew on his soup spoon, his expression mournful. “Inquisitor’s got armies, a throne, good swordsmith and plenty. What could any of us offer a woman like that?”

Neither of them could think of anything the Inquisitor lacked, save victory. Privately, Solas thought of all the things Pangara would desire: to be able to go home to her clan without magic bright and cruel her palm, to master her ill-bred stag, to hear from him the truth… Not that she knew he withheld anything from her. But he knew she would want the truth, if she knew she did not have it… He let the notion slip from his mind. This was an easy enough discipline; he employed it often.

He joined the men in trading tales of old battles while light flickered the surface of the lake and the fowl complained and washed their ruffled heads. With only sparse clouds, high and rib-like overhead, the sounds of birds light in the trees, and the rush of the river, it was easy to voice the simple indices of loss: _I lost a man I could have saved, he withered in my arms; the girl was safe but arrows found her somehow._

When it landed, Blackwall enticed the raven close and picked open the note, reading Harding’s assessment. She assured them of her party’s progress up the mountain path - faster, now that Solas, Bull, and Blackwall had dealt with the wolves. They were to hold their position until the scouts caught up.

His gaze kept wandering back to the ropes hanging to dry in the trees. He kept smiling, softly and fondly, and the Bull would always laugh when he noticed.

In the garden Pangara had cultivated trenches of a weed found easily enough in the valleys and forests in the lower Frostbacks — it was a red-leafed variety, and not fit for intoxication, and he’d thought nothing of it. He’d decided that some Dalish tincture must require the root in such great numbers. Then there had been rumors of the plants growing tall, being culled, and growing again in impossibly short intervals; _magic loose on the grounds_ was whispered among the troops. The rumor shouldn’t have been too alarming, given the presence of the mages in the east tower, but the Inquisitor’s special attention to the crops had turned heads.

How could he accept that all that time, so many of her very few hours of repose, she had been thinking of him? Solas had been determined to treat the ropes as soon as possible, to use them, to prove to her what he could do with such a gift. He would prepare something special. Something… suspended, he decided, after carefully considering the strength of the ropes. Yes.

They slept around the fire, for it would not rain. The next was a rare day spent aimlessly, drowsing lazily in the grass and only going out to catch fresh game and return for the work of skinning, salting, and cooking it. Blackwall took another bird. Solas went and felt the ropes as the afternoon waned. After two hot days in the high elevation, the ropes were dry and ready to be worked.

He enlisted the Iron Bull’s help once more, together they rubbed the fibers from the lengths, pulling the ropes hard over the rough haft of Bull’s great ax to teach the ropes to droop and relax. The many rough fibers were stunted, shavings floating in the bright air, and the rope started to feel smooth. The Bull casually mentioned a particular oil he always carried with him, from Seheron in origin, that never soured or spoiled the rope. Solas was curious, and asked to know of its make.

Blackwall set off with his sword and a handful of berries to go and meet Scout Harding and her party at the fork down the hill. Solas and the Bull sat elbow to elbow, and they spoke openly about the practices of bondage in a society so rigidly defined. Bull answered as ever: to half-satisfaction, always alert for Solas to get too gentle, too open to his prying interest. Solas did not give him the satisfaction, pressing enough of an attack to keep the Bull from seeing much else in him besides anger and impatience.

Solas knelt across from the Bull and they dipped the ropes into the flames, each swift. The ropes popped and fizzled, igniting and quickly burning out. The scent of burning grasses filled the air. By the time they had finished the singing, each length of rope was buttery to touch.

Bull brought the oil. They wetted rags and argued about method, practice, and tradition: altering a certain tie was disrespectful, combining different knots was easier for a certain pattern, how to immobilize without adding more rope. They crossed expertise of this intimate artistry, each surprised at the knowledge found in the other, both coming to a place of half-grudging respect.

“Come to the tavern sometime and I’ll show you that box switch I was describing on Krem.”

“That man will not sit still long enough to tie a hitch, much less the variation on a butterfly tail that you have described.”

“You’d be surprised what Krem will sit still for as long as there’s a pint of ale in it for him, no shittin’. He’s a good kid, and between you and me, I think he likes it when Dalish watches.”

Solas snorted, and couldn’t remember the last time he’d been allowed to talk like this: simple and eager on the artistry of it, the technique, and all it meant for the person who took the ties.

Blackwall returned with Scout Harding. Her crew tiredly held the reins of the mules, burdened with the tents and cooking pots, pulling the carts with the tables for potion making and map charting. The Bull deftly finished tying the length in his hands into a bundle. He tossed it to Solas, grinning when Solas jerked, dropped his own rope to his lap, and twisted for the catch.

“You’ve still got to think of something to give her. Something she wants or needs more than anything.”

The Bull went to help the scouts lay camp. The fowl in the lake had perhaps figured out that Blackwall had quietly removed some of their number for food. One petulant bird sounded a rowdy alarm and the rest of the flock took up the honking, noticing the encroaching party and suddenly desperate to move on. Solas finished oiling the last of the ropes. He watched as the birds dashed their wings against the water; they burst from the lake, rampaging into the air. He passed the rope from hand to hand, looping the cord, watching the flock wheel higher and higher.

What could he give her? He had given her a fortress, he had given her his heart. But he had not given her the truth.

He should go and help the others unpack the mules and set the camp. He replaced all the bundles, save one, in the sack. He would keep the sack close until he saw her next, the light scent of the oil perfuming his sleep. He watched the flock fly away. The sky was still bright, and the clouds pink. The rope was soft and it moved well in his hands. He pulled the end free and tied a simple noose. He held it up to the sky and saw no daylight through the knot.


End file.
